Mentalist Episode Tag: My Bloody Valentine, 4x12
by Donnamour1969
Summary: A tag in two parts, post episode. Rigsby shares his news with Van Pelt; Lisbon and Jane commiserate over cards. Spoilers, 4x12. Rated T for language. PART 2 IS UP!
1. Rigsby and Van Pelt

A/N: Thanks for all the great suggestions and encouragement to write this tag. The majority vote in my informal poll at the end of my other fic, "Fire With Fire" was for a Lisbon/Jane tag, but many of you also wanted more of Grace and requested that I write either two tags or an extra long one. So, bowing to the desires of you wonderful readers, and since there is no new episode next week, I've decided to write a two-part tag. The first part will be with Rigsby and Van Pelt, the second with Lisbon and Jane. I hope you enjoy them both! Thanks again for submitting your ideas!

**Episode Tag: My Bloody Valentine**

**Part 1: Rigsby and Van Pelt**

It was ten o'clock and Van Pelt was weary to her bones. Despite her exhaustion, the events of the last two days wouldn't allow her to sleep, so she was making herself a cup of chamomile (Jane's recommended brand) when a soft knock came at her apartment door. From the drawer of the table nearest the door, she withdrew the Glock she kept there, a habit she'd formed since the death of her fiancé. Or, more accurately, since she'd killed her murderous fiancé months before. He'd worked for Red John after all, and Van Pelt had nightmares sometimes about the serial killer taking his revenge. She kept another gun by her bed.

Thus armed, Van Pelt looked through the peephole, surprised to see Rigsby standing there. He was wearing jeans and a blue hooded CBI sweatshirt that exactly matched his eyes. She returned her weapon to the drawer, unlocked the two deadbolts, pulled back the chain, and faced her former lover, her heart pounding. It must be bad news for him to have needed to speak to her in person.

"Wayne," she said anxiously. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, good, you're awake. Sorry, Grace. Can I come in?" He seemed jittery, nervous, making Van Pelt's own anxiety soar.

"Sure. What is it? What's going on?"

She stood aside to let him enter, and his eyes swept the achingly familiar living room—a mixture of country modern and Victorian antiques. She was an old-fashioned girl, his Grace. _She's not my Grace anymore,_ he corrected himself. He ran an agitated hand had through his spiked up hair, and Van Pelt surmised he'd done that many times that evening, for he'd been wearing his hair neatly combed of late.

"I needed to talk to somebody," he said. "And I couldn't talk to Cho. He'd just sit there and shake his head at me like I was an idiot. And he's so right. Jesus, Grace, I've really screwed up now."

She felt herself relax a little. It didn't sound like anyone was hurt or dead, just something in Rigsby's personal life he was too ashamed to discuss with Cho. To be truthful, she really didn't want to know—it hurt too much-but she'd felt like they'd become friends lately, and he'd been really understanding with the Craig situation. She guessed she owed him a shoulder to cry on, especially since he'd saved her life only hours before.

"Come in and sit. I was just making myself some tea. You want some?"

"No," he said, his voice unintentionally sharp, as he made his way to the overstuffed damask sofa. "You have anything stronger?"

"I think I have some wine," she said, moving back toward the kitchen and looking inside the refrigerator. "Some white zin—that's about it." She used to keep beer on hand for him when they were dating, but that seemed like eons ago now.

"That'd be great," he said, his voice slightly muffled. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He listened to the sound of tinkling glassware, the small pop as she removed the cork. His mouth watered. He'd needed a drink for hours, but there'd be no more drinking with Sarah, not for the next six months anyway. _Oh God._

He felt rather than saw Grace's presence beside him, smelled the familiar sweetness of her lilac perfume, and he looked up to take the glass she proffered gratefully. She'd abandoned her tea idea and had poured herself a glass. She sat down next to him on the sofa drawing one knee comfortably beneath her, and he noticed that she was wearing snowflake patterned sleep pants and a t-shirt with the familiar CBI logo. Rigsby almost laughed aloud. Their similar attire was a testament to how much they both valued their jobs, even when they were off duty. If they hadn't valued those damn jobs so much, he thought bitterly, neither of them would be in the emotional states they were in right now. They'd likely still be together, and…he shook his head to clear away the remnants of that dead dream and took a sip of the sweet wine.

"Thanks," he said, indicating the wine, forcing himself not to drink it all down in one gulp.

"You're welcome. Now tell me what's up, Wayne. Does it have to do with Sarah? I thought I saw you two leaving together earlier. Did you have a fight or something?"

"Uh, no. Quite the contrary, actually." He looked at her, trying to ignore the usual jolt he got from her beauty, even now. He decided the best way to get this out was to bite the bullet and just tell her straight out. "Sarah's pregnant."

He watched her eyes widen in surprise, the wine glass frozen halfway to her lovely pink mouth. He supposed he must have looked just like this when Sarah had shared the news in an elevator of all places.

"What?" she asked for clarification, echoing his own reaction earlier. He knew she wondered if she'd heard him right.

Rigsby laughed humorlessly. "Yeah. I'm gonna be a dad. Ain't that a kick in the pants." He did gulp his wine then.

"Seriously?" Van Pelt finally managed, setting her own glass on a round coaster on the coffee table. She hated glass rings.

"As a freakin' heart attack," he said, eyes bleak.

Van Pelt's mind was racing. Her second reaction (after shock, of course) was pure, painful jealousy. _It should have been me_, she thought sadly. _I should have been the one dealing with all the ramifications of an unplanned pregnancy, not the consequences of killing someone I thought I loved. I should have chosen Wayne over my job. I was such an idiot._

She looked at this man she would always love, despite all of her mistakes, once again making himself at home on her couch. But this time he was looking to her for some sort of comfort she wasn't sure she could give him. But in honor of the memory of all they'd been to each other once, she owed it to him to at least try. She took a deep breath, exhaling softly.

"I—I don't know what to say, Wayne. I'm sorry? Congratulations? You're obviously freaked out here. Have you and Sarah made any decisions?"

"She's totally excited about this," Rigsby said, not answering any of her questions. "We went out to eat, but everything tasted like sawdust in my mouth. I just sat there numbly, listening to her prattle on and on about baby names and cribs and college funds. She's happy enough for the both of us, I suppose."

"And you're not…happy?" she asked tentatively.

His head fell back in his hands and he closed his eyes. "I don't know what the hell I am," he said honestly. "I mean, this came from about as far in left-field as anything could possibly come. It would be different if I—well, if I loved her." He was embarrassed to admit this to Grace, mortified with himself for creating a child with a woman he didn't love. But therein lay the quandary. If he loved Sarah, this would be a no-brainer. He would do the honorable thing and marry her, despite how old-fashioned that might seem these days. If this had been Grace, however…but he couldn't go there. It wasn't fair to his unborn child. _Oh God._

"I'm sorry," Van Pelt was saying. She'd rightfully decided after his admission that this wasn't necessarily a happy occasion. "What are you going to do?"

"Whatever she wants," he said fatalistically. "I mean, she obviously wants this baby. And I could never ask her to—you know—_it's my baby_. I had such a horrific father, no way I'd do the same to my own."

"You'll be a terrific dad," Van Pelt told him, and she meant that, despite the wave of regret she felt as the words left her mouth.

"You think so?" he asked her, his lost blue eyes seeking hers for reassurance. But when he saw the signs of unshed tears in hers, he felt his own well up with emotions that he'd tamped down for Sarah's sake the last several hours.

"Yes," she whispered. "I do."

Before either of them could think or take another ragged breath, they found themselves in each other's arms. Rigsby let the tears come, let himself feel the fear, the anger, the grief as his body shook with his sobs. Van Pelt clung tightly, realizing how much she too needed to be held, how she'd missed the comfort of human contact for months as she'd dealt with her demons all by herself. Her arms tightened around him even more as the tears slipped silently down her cheeks, dropping heedlessly onto the soft cotton of his sweatshirt.

Minutes passed and, the worst of his weeping subsided, Rigsby pulled away slightly, his hands going to Grace's face to brush away her tears with his thumbs. He saw with wonder the mutual pain reflected in her brown eyes, and before he could stop himself, found her lips with his own. She tasted of bitter tears and sweet wine and he drank her in, feeling as if he were finally home after a long sojourn into the desert. He kissed her with all the frustrated passion in his heart, and she let him for a brief moment feel the longing she too had felt since they'd ended things more than a year before.

But she was the one who finally pulled away, heart pounding, breath coming in trembling gasps.

"Wayne, we can't do this. Sarah—"

It was like she'd thrown cold water on him, and he slid almost violently away from her, his head thrown against the back of the couch, panting with frustration and self-loathing.

"Oh God, Grace. I'm sorry. I-I don't know what I was thinking."

"Neither of us were doing much of that," she said sheepishly, feeling tremendous guilt at her own part in this. "But you certainly don't need any more complications…"

He barked out a self-deprecating laugh. "That's for sure. I should go."

But he made no move to leave, and she gave no words that would encourage it. Instead, she went to the kitchen to retrieve the wine bottle, refilling both glasses to the brim.

"Where's Sarah now," Van Pelt asked, picking up her glass.

Rigsby's eyes flicked guiltily away. "I left her asleep in her bed. You know, her house is just a few blocks from here. I have to pass by your apartment complex every time I go to see her." He blushed slightly at that admission, and Van Pelt didn't know what to say to that.

"She doesn't know you left?" she asked instead, the knife twisting in her heart.

He met her eyes then, dark blue and haunted. "No…I should really go," he repeated solemnly, but at the same time, he reached again for his glass.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Rigsby awoke to the warmth of a fully clothed woman's body snuggled against his, a soft throw blanket covering them both. They'd talked and drank late into the night, falling asleep on the narrow couch as emotional exhaustion and alcohol overtook them both. He moved his arm to look at his watch, saw that it was six a.m., and gently extricated his long frame from hers. He'd just have time to make it home and shower before work.

Van Pelt shifted in sleep, making sounds of protest at the loss of his warmth, and he was sorely tempted to climb back in and oblige her. But he couldn't. He was a man with new responsibilities. He had a child to think of now, and a girlfriend who didn't deserve what he'd give the world to do with Van Pelt.

He sighed as he moved to a nearby chair and put on the sneakers he'd kicked off sometime in the night, watching Grace as she slept. His heart clenched, but there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing he _would _do. He'd loved her from afar for a majority of their acquaintance, so he was more than used to that feeling. It would be tough, but he could bear it if she could. For one more selfish moment, however, he allowed himself to feel the sweet pain just looking at her brought him. He would have to endure it though, for his child's sake.

His shoes newly tied, Rigsby stood and moved back to the couch, pulling the blanket up to Van Pelt's chin. He couldn't resist kissing her one last time on her smooth, alabaster cheek, brushing her vibrant hair from her closed eyes.

"I love you, Grace," he whispered. "I'll always love you."

Outside in the chill of the winter morning, Rigsby put his hands into the front pockets of his sweatshirt as he walked back toward his pickup truck. His mouth was dry as cotton, and his head pounded from the alcohol, but he welcomed the pain. It would follow him the rest of the day, along with the illusive fragrance of lilacs.

A/N: A little on the angsty side, I know, but there is so much going on between these two that I didn't know any other way to write such a scene. Now, the show of course will likely (hopefully) have their own version of Rigsby breaking the news to Van Pelt, but I'm pretty sure they won't do the romantic thing that we Rigspelt fans would love.

I promise Part 2 of this tag will be much lighter, with hopefully more humor, focusing as promised on Lisbon and Jane. I hope you come back for more. Thanks for reading!


	2. Jane and Lisbon

A/N: Thanks for your great response to part 1 of this tag. I promise to catch up on those replies very soon. Now, here is a much lighter part 2. Well, sort of.

**Part 2: Jane and Lisbon**

Jane made his escape from Van Pelt's probing questions and solicitation of advice, smoothly passing the buck back to her. It wasn't so much that he didn't care that she was finally confronting the issues that came with killing her fiancé, it was more that he'd always felt dealing with these things was a deeply personal thing. Yes, best that Van Pelt figured things out on her own, even if her subconscious mind was presenting her with hallucinations of her dead boyfriend.

Jane was considering leaving and actually sleeping in his own rented bed when he walked past the interrogation room where he'd questioned Luis Osorio earlier. Someone had left the light on, and he was about to help California conserve energy and flip off the light, when he noticed someone was occupying the room.

"Lisbon," he said in surprise. She jumped at his voice, then quickly moved her hands out of sight. Jane's eyes narrowed in amused suspicion.

"Jane. I uh-thought you'd gone home. Or to your attic…"

"No." He walked all the way into the room and stood before her, trying to read her deliberately blank expression. She was clearly hiding something, but _what _and _why_?

"What's in your hands, Lisbon?" he asked casually. Her cheeks grew slightly pink at his question.

"Nothing," she replied, like a child who's been caught red-handed but still lies anyway.

"Come on, Teresa," he said condescendingly. "Show me your hands."

Slowly, sheepishly, she brought her hands from beneath the table and set three familiar red and white playing cards down before her. The bent cards he'd used to play three card monty. He grinned, his expression nearly proud.

"You've been practicing," he said cheerily. "You watched me teaching Osorio and you just had to try it yourself."

She didn't deny it, but her face colored even more from embarrassment.

"Now what would a CBI agent need with street con monty cards?"

She sighed in defeat. "Nothing. I simply had a childish desire to see if I could do it as well as you. You make it look so simple. But then, you've had years to perfect your con artist abilities." The last sounded accusatory, not so much that he was once a con man, but that he was better at this particular con than she was.

"Well come on, Lisbon. Show me what you got."

She looked at him a moment, gauging his sincerity, then reluctantly began sliding the cards around on the table. "Where's the queen?" she asked after a few seconds of fancy handiwork.

"The middle," he said confidently, having of course perfected this game long ago. She turned over the suggested card, and, low and behold, he was wrong.

"What?"

He pulled out the chair across the table from her and sat down, the look on his face intense and befuddled at the same time.

"Again," he nodded. She repeated her little bit.

"Where's the queen?" she asked him.

"The left."

"Wrong again," she said, showing him the queen was in fact on the right.

"What the hell? How'd you do that?"

She shrugged. "I grew up in Chicago, Jane, practically where the street con began. What can I tell you? It's in my blood."

"Let me see those cards," he demanded. She innocently passed them to him. He examined them with expert eyes, then proceeded to move them around just as he'd shown Osorio earlier. They were the same cards he'd used, alright, creased and folded by his own hands.

"Okay, Lisbon, I give up. Tell me how it's done."

"If I don't tell you, are you going to hypnotize me into spilling the beans?"

He glanced sharply at her, his hands pausing over the cards. "You knew what I was doing to Osorio?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course I did. Your back might have been to me, but it was pretty obvious when he started talking that you'd put him under your spell."

"You didn't even try to stop me though. Didn't even read me the riot act afterwards."

She shrugged. "I've learned by now that while your actions might not always be…aboveboard, the ends usually justify your unorthodox means."

"Well, well, well, Lisbon," he grinned proudly. "You've been reading _Machiavelli for Dummies_, again, haven't you?"

She refused to let him bait her. "'He who wishes to deceive will never fail to find willing dupes,'" she quoted good-naturedly.

"Uh-huh," he said skeptically. He turned his attention back to the cards. "Okay, then. Well at least show me your moves again, Lisbon, until I figure out how you do it."

"If you can't, you owe me twenty bucks," she said, eyes twinkling.

"Deal," he agreed, never one to back away from a challenge.

Ten minutes later, Jane reluctantly forked over a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

"Someday, promise you'll tell me how you did it."

She flashed him her best Cheshire cat grin. "I don't know, Jane," she replied, slipping her cash down the front of her blouse. Jane's eyes widened at the uncharacteristic sexiness of her action. "A girl's got to be allowed some little secrets."

He rose from the table, stifling a yawn.

"Well, I was just on my way home for the night. Thanks for the entertaining evening. Well done, Lisbon. You conned the con." He grinned at her in grudging admiration. She took the compliment with a confident nod.

"Good-night, Jane," she said, watching him leave the interrogation room and walk toward the elevator. When she'd heard it _ding_, the doors slide open and shut, she stood, looking toward the one-way glass.

"Did you see that?" she said excitedly. "I told you I could do it."  
>Cho and Rigsby came out of the observation room to join their boss in the hallway, clearly surprised that they'd just witnessed their straight-arrow boss pulling one over on the sharpest hustler they knew.<p>

"Okay, guys, pay up," she commanded, holding out her hand. The men each pulled a twenty from their wallets and reluctantly paid their lost wager.

"I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes," Rigsby said plaintively.

"Yeah," said Cho almost suspiciously. "That was a mean trick."

"Well, boys" Lisbon said, pocketing her cash. "Nice doing business with you. See you tomorrow morning."

"Night, Boss," they chorused, heading toward the elevator landing. Lisbon listened in amusement to them debating how she'd done it.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He'd been waiting in the darkness beneath the building's front portico when suddenly he materialized before her. Lisbon automatically reached for her gun, but Jane held up his hands and stepped into the glow of the security light.

"Whoa! It's me, Lisbon." He grinned at her surprised reaction.

"Geeze, Jane! You scared me to death. You're lucky I didn't shoot you." She holstered her weapon.

His smile widened, his teeth white in the near darkness.

"Okay, my brilliant little shill, where's my take?"

She reached into her pocket and handed him twenty dollars.

"They never knew what hit them," Lisbon said smugly.

"That was beautiful," Jane said, straightening his ill-gotten gains with a snap. "And you were brilliant, improvising that bet with me." He handed out his hand in wait for the twenty she'd "borrowed."

"What? No way I'm giving that back," she told him obstinately. "Call it a finder's fee." She patted her chest and he could hear the faint rustling of crisp paper beneath her top.

"Hey," he protested. "That means I made nothing on this deal. I do believe I've created a monster." But he sounded almost affectionate when he said it.

They walked to her vehicle and she pressed the remote to unlock it. He held the door open for her while she slipped into the driver's seat.

"Be careful what you wish for, Dr. Frankenstein," she said, her grin almost cocky.

He watched her drive away into the night, his smile fading as he contemplated her words.

A/N: So, obviously, this is an allegory as to how concerned I am with the road Jane is leading Lisbon down. For all Jane's talk of being changed when chasing monsters, I think he's going to come to realize he's created one along the way.

Oh, and please forgive my poetic license in this fic. I realize that Rigsby had already left with Sarah by the time Van Pelt had her conversation with Jane. I hope you'll forgive my messing with the space-time continuum for the sake of storytelling.

Thanks for reading. Reviews are always lovely (hint hint).


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